


A Vermillion Conversation

by The_Untitled_King



Category: League of Legends
Genre: Blood, Blood Drinking, God Complex, Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-29
Updated: 2019-06-29
Packaged: 2020-05-28 11:05:52
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,170
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19392838
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Untitled_King/pseuds/The_Untitled_King
Summary: Clawed hands stained red, and their antagonistic owners parley.





	A Vermillion Conversation

“Sir, your presence has been asked after by the Trifarix, the Grand General himself is insistent upon it.”

Vladimir briefly looked away from his in-progress painting to address the acolyte. He took note of the information, and as she opened her mouth again to presumably share details about place and time, he cut her off. “Thank you Sigur, that will be all.”

“My lord.” She nodded, turning in a curtain of red robes and leaving him to his work.

He sighed as he looked back at his work, having pressed the blue-tipped brush into the canvas far too hard and thus ruined the painting. The brush was returned to its pot, and he ran a stained hand through his hair, marring the white with the rainbow of his pallet.

There was a pang of sorrow, but he knew that the painting wasn’t very good anyway. Just like he knew that he wasn’t going to that meeting.

_________________________________________________________________________

Three knocks sounded on the door, loud enough to echo down the hallway and back again.

Not loud enough to come even closer to masking the heated, carnal noises from within.

Sigur rolled her eyes as she opened the door, not waiting for her master’s permission. He was exactly how she had expected him, on top, naked and wild like living marble. Beneath him was a body, she could only see their back, with a head of long brown hair buried in several pillows.

“My lord.”

He turned his head over his shoulder, not for one second missing his poise or grace in his movements.

“The Trifarix has once again requested your presence, with the Grand General wanting me to note his personal impatience. Will you be attending this time?”

Vladimir sank himself into his partner and paused, sighing and brushing a stray lock of hair out of his face. “Yes, Sigur, I will be there.”

He was, in fact, not there.

_________________________________________________________________________

Vladimir was silent as he flipped the page of his book, trawling through a more recent account of the fall of the Shuriman empire. It wasn’t his familiarity with the event that needed brushing up on, but he was always curious on how history was interpreted and presented throughout time.

_No mention on the Darkin, barely on the Ascended…shoddy._ He frowned at the ink, turning the page once again.

“My lord?” A familiar voice said, breaking his attention from the book.

He looked up, sharing his bored, half-irritated inflection with Sigur. From behind her mask he could only see her eyes peeking out, patient and loyal as ever, with just a bit more bite than the other acolytes. There was an imperceptible movement as she opened her mouth to speak, but Vladimir didn’t see it, he saw the vessels in her body swell and stretch in preparation, and barely exerted his will to quiet her before she spoke.

“The Trifarix wants me?”

She nodded, taking her spellbound silence in stride.

“Little Jericho himself asked again?”

She nodded again.

“There’s a letter in your pocket with his sigil.”

There was a hesitation before she reacted, but she gave him another affirmative nod.

“Give it to me, don’t bother me again with the Trifarix. Go practice circulation for the rest of the day, until the sun is gone.”

She fished out the small, black-papered envelope bearing a triadic red wax seal, handing it to him before disappearing. Vladimir waited until she had retreated from his sight fully before undoing his magic, and took a lazy look at the letter in his hand.

He crushed it in his fist and disintegrated it in a flare of azure fire, scowling as the embers fell to the floor.

_________________________________________________________________________

Vladimir hummed to himself as he pushed the blade down, an old tune long forgotten by the rest of the world. The world was still, the cold air a contrast against the excited, warm thrum within his bare chest. Circular markings were painted in blood all around him, twisting against the brickwork and climbing up against the walls and ceiling. Wrapped tightly enough to strangle.

The corpse beneath him shuddered briefly with magic, and Vladimir’s smile grew. He pressed the knife deeper into its wrist, making a careful, precise incision that would allow access to their heart-bound veins without compromising integrity.

_Yes, that will do nicely._

He then raised the bloody blade up to his throat, tilting his jaw back and closing his eyes. The thrum had accelerated, faster, faster, it rang in his ears and sang to him. A single pale breath slipped from his lips as he exhaled, pressing the edge gently against his skin.

Just softly enough to draw blood, just delicately enough to be safe. No distractions to break his concentration.

The door to the chamber opened with a slam, metal squeaking against metal as an unwanted intruder barged in.

“Master! There’s-”

There was a harsh grunt and the sound of steel biting into flesh, echoed by Vladimir’s blood splashing all over the walls. The knife fell from his hand and clattered against the ground, earning a gasp from Sigur as she held her hands over the mouth of her mask, eyes wide in shock and fear. The surprise of her entry had caused Vladimir’s fingers to slip, just enough, just enough for the sharpened blade to slash cleanly through his throat, barely missing his vertebrae.

In a swift instant Vladimir rose to his full height, staring down at his cultist student with quiet severity. His throat and upper torso were already stained in blood by the half-second it took for his wound to stitch itself together, as if it were never there. He wiped his thumb against where the wound had been, licking off the smeared blood as he eyed Sigur.

“Do tell me dear, what is so important that you interrupted me without announcing yourself?” He twisted his neck to the side, checking to make sure everything was as it ought to be.

She struggled to catch her breath, still gripped by the cold stare he was directing towards her. It was only in the brief moment that he looked away to check the state of the ritual that she found the courage to speak in his presence.

“There’s a guest for you. The Grand General. I couldn’t turn him away, sir, I’m so sorry, I-”

Vladimir raised his hand to silence her, requiring no spell this time to ensure her compliance.

“Clean my body, then clean this up and put the ritual in cold stasis. I will deal with you once I have sent little Jericho on his way, and trust me Sigur, you will not enjoy it one bit.”

She bowed her head as she approached him, using a combination of magic and the sleeve of her robe to clean the mess over his body.

“And get me my coat.”

Vladimir ran a hand through his hair as he walked down the halls, slightly faster than he would have liked to take it. Just as the exterior of his estate reflected his longevity, the interior adhered to a similar principle, the hallways and rooms resembling a patchwork of history and culture.

His coat trailed behind him in his stride, its fluid movements almost self-animate and with a life of its own, the corners of the collar and folds shivering with a pulsing hum. High-collared, tapered-shouldered, sharp-edged, all bathed in a virulent crimson that Vladimir felt completely at home in, lined with an old regal gold. One of his greatest creations, a masterwork that he had literally poured his heart into. Living armour, bloody fabric. Threads like vessels, silk like sinew, the weave of the cloth was as close to him as a living thing could be, almost as if it were his own flesh, stretched over himself. He wore it skin to skin, bare beneath the coat’s embrace save for modest dark trousers.

It was in this candid dress he approached the Grand General admiring a mural on the wall, bowing his head in mock courtesy as the distance closed to a few meters between the two. He glanced briefly at the great six-eyed raven at Swain’s shoulder, unease creeping up into his feet.

“Grand General, to what do I owe this…well, not _pleasure_.”

Swain looked down his nose at Vladimir, still half-attentive to the piece he had been regarding. He ignored the haemomancer’s greeting and engaged in his own conversation.

“This piece, I can’t say I recognize the style. When is it from?”

“My great…-great-grandfather’s time, he had this commissioned during his youth.”

Swain made a derisive grunt and turned his eyes to Vladimir, glaring. “His youth. You both bear a striking resemblance, one might even call it coincidental.” The Grand General paused and inhaled through his nostrils, letting his shoulders reinflate.

Vladimir had to stop himself from chuckling as he realized that even with his boots and mantled coat, Swain was a fair deal shorter than him.

“Please, if you would.” Vladimir extended his arm and offered to escort Swain to the adjacent sitting room, bathed in sunlight and open. The Grand General took the offer, trailing behind him and taking care to notice the strangely viscous form of Vladimir’s coat. He couldn’t quite discern what was so off about it, but Swain had more than just his own eyes to see things.

The two sat down opposite one another, Vladimir reclining into a crimson high-backed armchair as Swain placed himself down at the end of a pale brown sofa, sitting with all the stiffness of his military background. His raven let out a single stray caw, leaping from Swain’s shoulder and exploring the room.

“So, what brings you to my home?”

“You know exactly why I’m here. You’ve been ignoring summons from the high table, and we will not tolerate a blatant disregard for authority, not even for you.”

Vladimir shrugged, clasping his hands in his lap and crossing his legs. “ _Even_ for me? I’m flattered, though tell me, Grand General, why has it taken you this long for me to be worth your time?”

“Empires don’t run themselves. I cannot allow myself to get distracted over one nobleman, even if he is also a…noteworthy mage.”

Vladimir let out a low chuckle. “I’m flattered.”

“Don’t be.” Swain snapped. “This isn’t a social visit, and I don’t intend to spend a second longer here than I have to.”

The red mage slouched slightly deeper into his chair. “Can I assume you haven’t come here just to chastise me for not attending your summons?”

Swain’s eyebrows shifted, as if they themselves were trying to lay a marker on Vladimir. Sizing him up. Finding a crack in his demeanour. “Your noteworthiness is of concern to command, and my rule. I am here to ensure that you are not, nor will not, an interference that needs to be…addressed.”

_I’m even more flattered, but that’s honestly quite disheartening. Noxus’ information-keeping is…shoddy, even in the face of my active work to hide myself from history._

_Am I holding them to too high a standard?_

“What do you need to know?” Vladimir asked, a small smile playing at the corner of his lip.

“Who are you, what are you, and what magnitude of power do you pose, for better or worse.”

Vladimir failed to hold back a snort, holding one of his hands over his mouth. Swain’s expression soured as Vladimir composed himself, jaw clenching harder as he expected an explanation for the outburst. “Forgive me, Grand General,” Vladimir said. “…but that’s incredibly blunt of you. No subtly, no wearing me down, no playing the game? With intentions laid so bare, how could you expect me to answer with honesty?”

“As a citizen of Noxus, you are subject to the will of your rulers. My will.” He added with a growl.

“Of course I am.” Vladimir’s eyes briefly shifted to the raven perched above them on the chandelier. He locked eyes with the bird, scanning over each crimson pair with his own pale, and returned his gaze to the man before him. “Grand General, do you believe in god?”

_What?_

The Trifarix’s warlock blinked and frowned. “Enough, I don’t have time for this. Answer me and-”

“Indulge me, Swain, and I will answer any and all of your questions.”

The casual use of his name and being cut off flared Swain’s temper. A spark of bright red power shivered at his sleeved stump, and it took his years of discipline to hold out and stop himself clenching the demon into manifestation. He steadied himself, closed his eyes for a second, and looked back up.

_If that is what this takes._

“Very well.” There was a pause, a beat, as time passed and Swain considered what he wanted to say. “First, I would ask, what do you mean by god, how do you define it.”

Vladimir’s eyes lit up and his hands clapped together. “Oh, I expected nothing less from you, Grand General.”

Swain’s gaze tightened, but ignored Vladimir. He would not rise to mockery, even if there was sincerity behind the words. “There are…our histories suggest that there were gods in our world, or at least beings worshipped as gods. We both know this.”

Vladimir nodded.

“If I were to pluck names, I would consider the Kindred, and that…Bearded Lady of the Serpent Isles.”

“Nagakabouros.”

“…Yes.” Swain’s teeth ground slightly against one another. “To those that follow their worship, they are considered integral parts of the cycle of the world. Pillars. You couldn’t topple them without disrupting the supposed balance.”

“Is that so?” Vladimir asked, almost humming the words. “Let me ask you, Grand General, would you consider those spirits like us, creatures of sentience and thought? Do they act upon their own wishes and desires?” The pale man sneered. “No, they do not, assuming they even exist. They are slaves to their purported ideals.”

“Their power is undeniable. The will to move forward and the absolution of death.”

Vladimir scoffed. “They are shackled, and nothing called god should ever be shackled.”

“That’s a very narrow view of the world.”

“Do you revere the world for keeping us grounded to it? They are simply reality in motion. Their influence is no different from the wind or the rotating sun. They are constants, they exist, but without agency of their own these ‘gods’ of yours may as well be just as unthinking as the stone that forms walls and towers.” Vladimir’s eyebrows sunk. “You’re better than that, Grand General. Be better.”

Swain scowled back. “Then what about the old god-warriors of Shurima, or do they not count?”

Vladimir stifled a laugh, half-heartedly, so that Swain could still see his dismissive thoughts on the suggestion. “No, they do not.” He inhaled. “Tell me Grand General, do you see the Ascended walking through our halls, do you see pillars of sand anchoring the stretched out empire of the sun?”

“Do not talk down to me.” Swain nearly growled.

“Then do not present yourself as someone I must talk down to.” Vladimir took note of the way the chandelier-perched raven snapped its head towards him, and the tiny flicker of crimson lightning that appeared at Swain’s side, and his lips curled into a wry smile.

“Gods do not fall. A being worthy of being called god would be beyond death or bondage.” He propped one elbow into the arm of his chair and rested his cheek against it, using the other to gesture along with his words. “The Ascended, and their successors all fell to the trials of time. They were powerful in their time, but nothing more than a chapter in history’s pages.”

Swain gave the man opposite him a scrutinizing look. “You’re quite knowledgeable about things from so long ago.”

Vladimir shrugged. “Most of this house is a library, I have taken it upon myself to educate myself about the past. Most of my resources go towards learning about the world we live in.”

“Perhaps you should live in the present.” Swain tilted his head forward slightly.

“I live here plenty, it’s everyone else who is so ready to forget their history.”

Swain sighed, increasingly exasperated by the haemomancer’s antics. He drummed his fingers against the sofa beneath him, and finally snapped. “Vladimir, enough. You are trying my patience, far beyond what I would allow for most. Answer my questions.” His tone stiff and low.

Vladimir gave Swain smile. “Fair enough. You have indeed indulged me, dear Grand General, and I will now hold up my end of the arrangement, and in doing so I shall also address my own question.” Vladimir’s tone became softer, and he moved to the edge of his seat.

“I was born into the Darkin Wars, in the wake of Shurima’s fall. It was there I was taken and reforged by devils greater than the world will ever see again into something…more. My masters fell, but I endured beyond them, and persisted throughout the ages.”

He rose to his feet, slowly approaching Swain.

“I have walked the world and seen more with my own two eyes than you will ever see with your visions.” His eyes briefly moved to the six-eyed raven. “I was here when this land was just dust and soil, before the kingdom of a tyrant rose, and before Noxus built itself on its mantle.” He knelt before Swain.

“And I will be here when Noxus itself, and its name, and your name, Jericho Swain, are dust and soil once again.”

He reached out and laid his hand upon Swain’s stumped arm, and in an instant, the warlock of the Trifarix knew that every word was true. His skin crawled inside of itself, his ribcage tightened around his heart, dread mounted and constricted his throat, and he saw the gentle smile before him for the monster that Vladimir truly was.

Vladimir pulled back and raised his arms, placing himself on exhibit. His coat pulsated with lifeblood, threaded vessels writhing in the sleeves. “That is godhood to me. Greater beings than I have risen, but they have fallen. I will never fall. I have seen and learned more than any other creature, living or dead, and I have the archives to back it up. My powers are beyond what most can even dream of. You mentioned the absolution of death, but I have transcended mortality, and in doing so have left behind the morals of that mortality. So long ago I rejected my humanity, Jericho, that I don’t even truly remember what it’s like to be one of you, I can only know how to look down on your kind, writhing in the dirt like insects. My existence itself is my proof of god, that one can break the shackles they were born with and become something their past selves wouldn’t even have been able to understand.”

He leaned back and looked up at the ceiling, basking in his own self-indulgent rapture. Seconds stretched out like the sunlight piercing the windows, and Vladimir let the warm embrace of his own sense of supremacy envelop him.

“And if I were to strike god down?” The Grand General asked, his expression focused. A shock of lightning pierced the air as his incomplete arm found incarnation, his talons curling into a fist.

The reverie had been broken.

However, before Swain could find the call to act and follow up, Vladimir leapt forth, digging his fingers into Swain’s skull and pushing his magic through them. The coat bloomed to life in an echo of Vladimir’s outrage, and he forced his will deep into Swain’s mind, deep enough strangle the things he did not want Swain to recall.

Deep enough to bury himself.

Vladimir watched the Grand General leave from a tall window overlooking his front gardens, torso bare and arms folded in front of him. Swain’s stride was as purposeful as ever, a kingly, three-legged gait with his cane tapping against the stonework along every step. Contempt swam through Vladimir’s mind as he watched the younger man become smaller and smaller, until he disappeared behind the hedges and walls.

Mingled with a begrudging admiration.

“I didn’t expect him to react that way. He’s tenacious, just as he was as a child.”

“Have you met the Grand General before, sir?”

Vladimir turned to regard Sigur, currently hanging upside down from a cross-shaped ornament of metal, her hands and feet impaled and forced stuck. There were several intravenous tubes flowing in and out of her body, connected to all sorts of trembling, half-living and malformed creatures around the room. Her body was covered in deep lacerations, causing her to spill herself steadily over the floor, draining her. The tubes would feed her the sick, rotting blood back to replenish her for what she lost, but it would also be a test of her ability to cleanse tainted blood.

If she failed, her body would serve at least as a lesson, both in a lab and as a warning.

“I did, once, years ago, he would have barely been a teenager then. He was just as impetuous, just as stubborn.” He hummed. “I doubt he remembers me from then.”

She grunted in pain as she spoke again. The tubes were not yet siphoning fouled ichor back and forth yet, she was still spared that for the moment. “It’s quite something seeing someone stand up to you so defiantly, sir.”

He narrowed her eyes at her, his jaw tightening as she too, along with the aging ruler of Noxus, earned his ire.

“I-I meant no disrespect, your eminence. Please believe in my loyalty, and my desire to see you triumph.”

Vladimir turned away and walked to the opposite wall of the room, drawing two marked vessels from a cabinet. Sigur strained her eyes to try to see what it was, but could make out nothing beyond the broad actions he made swirling and mixing the contents. She felt her lungs tighten with anxiety, and tried to abate it by speaking up again.

“How much do you think he’ll remember?” Her voice echoed out, feeling alone.

Vladimir was silent for a short while as he considered it. “I’m not sure, Swain’s mind is already remarkably formidable without his demons’ interference. For a human at least.” He held his chin in his hand. “I wasn’t able to fully erase our conversation, but I’m confident that I removed the truth about my past and what I am.” He shrugged and began to walk away from the window. “Time will tell.”

“You shouldn’t have underestimated him, perhaps you should spend more time researching your enemies?” Sigur’s voice offered helpfully.

“Perhaps indeed. I have no doubts that he will be back, and that he’s keeping eyes on me. I will have to match him. For now however…”

He approached her with the mixed liquid in hand, holding it in a silver-rimmed goblet of stained iron. Her eyes fixated upon it with fear, there was no chance it was something to help ease the punishment, even as she dearly wished it were so. Perhaps it wouldn't be out of the question, she was loyal, she had followed his instructions without question or hesitation, the only slip-up since she had entered his fold had been earlier that day, maybe he would be lenient.

She realized, as the last dregs of hope in her heart were swallowed up by the building dread inside her chest, that he would be anything but merciful. She watched as he lifted his hand to his mouth and bit deeply, opening a wound for blood to flow. Wide-eyed, trembling, she saw him hold his palm over the contents and add his own essence.

She knew what that could do to someone who drank it, she had seen large gladiators and veteran warriors fall and slowly melt off their own bones, lasting hours before an agonizing death for defying Vladimir.

 _Like honey._ He had said.

Then he approached her, staring at her mouth.

Sigur recoiled at the sight, jaw clenched shut, every muscle in her body springing into action, obeying the singular purpose of setting her free. It was all in vain: the iron impaling her hands and feet were unmoving, enchantments of eras past locking her in place and preventing any sliver of escape.

Then, there was Vladimir's long-fingered hand grasping her chin, the uncanny electricity of his touch playing a siren's song to all her strength.

Her visceral terror could only come from a place of familiarity. The substance in the goblet her master held would be given in small, diluted doses to many novices. Her novicehood was far behind her, but the trauma, the agony of that enchanted poison's spell had never left her. 

"You will drink it all, sweet dear," he purrs, bringing the bile higher. "Surviving this will be a test of your skill, but I have no doubt in your mettle."

He turned and left, leaving her to suffer the ravages of his love.


End file.
